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by daaarkknight (orphan_account)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman - Fandom, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bruce Wayne has good intentions, Bruce Wayne is Not Batman, Bruce Wayne is still DC Dad, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, I love this universe, M/M, Pedophilic urges, but is messed up, so is everyone else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 02:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 16,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21570112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/daaarkknight
Summary: Bruce Wayne is Arkham Asylum's resident psychiatrist. He’s dedicated his life to helping people given up by society as psychos and freaks. And what does he get for it in return? Nothing.Except maybe a family.
Relationships: Batman/Joker, Bruce Wayne/Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne/Selina Kyle, Dick Grayson/Tim Drake, Joker/Harley Quinn, Pamela Isley/Harleen Quinzel, Selina Kyle/Pamela Isley
Comments: 16
Kudos: 91
Collections: 8. Gotham ships Bruce Wayne x Batman, Batman, Batman Family Fics, Batman Universe Series, Batman/Robin (Bruce/Dick), BatmanFanfiction, Favorite Batman Fics, batman orignal characters





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FabulaRasa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/gifts), [Mithen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/gifts), [Unpretty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unpretty/gifts), [LemonadeGarden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonadeGarden/gifts).



> So Arkham in this universe is more like a high-security nursing home. Also, it doesn't have guards (I don't know why, but it would be inconvenient for my story, so out they went). Basically, the staff, in the beginning, consists of Jeremiah Arkham and Dr. Bruce Wayne. And the patient body is quite small.

Pamela Isley sits straight-backed in her chair. Her clear green eyes are two dappled pools reflecting the sunlight streaming in from the barred window.

“And then, I cross-pollinated the two Puspita variants to produce a hybrid seed.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“Yes, well, some of us have more important things to do than trying to help people who don’t require their help.”

“Things such as…”

“Saving the world.”

“Well, Pamela. _I’m_ not here to save the world.”

“No. You’re here to save me.”

“No, Pamela. I’m here to listen.”

“Of course. You’re the _good_ doctor. Here to _understand_. Make me believe that I’m not surrounded by twenty foot high stone walls and a barbed wire fence, that I’m not treated as a criminal, not…”

Here Isley breaks down. Bruce doesn’t move, doesn’t change his face, and doesn’t offer her any tissues. He simply looks on, his face a blank mask, devoid of any signs of compassion or empathy. Tears don’t make him uncomfortable.

So Pamela’s keep falling, like dewdrops.

Finally, she sniffs, and looks up. Bruce is still looking at her, no disgust or pity in those eyes. He’s pretending her moment of weakness didn’t happen. But the world doesn’t forgive weakness. Ivy knows.

“I want to stop for today.”

"Okay."

Harvey Dent was Bruce’s friend. Harvey Dent _is_ Bruce’s friend. They just see each other a lot more, that’s all.

Harvey was diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder. Bruce hates Harvey’s diagnosis, so he does away with it.

“Dent has DID!” Jeremiah Arkham screams at him.

Bruce blinks. “Harvey is…all there.”

“Try telling that to Two-Face. We need to cure him. Dent will only talk to you. And you refuse to see him as he is.”

“I see him, Jeremiah. You see…someone else.”

“If you do not follow proper therapeutic measures for DID, I will bring another doctor on the case.”

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Try.”

Bruce walks out of the office.

“Harvey.”

Harvey looks up.

“Hey, Bruce.”

“Good day or bad day?”

“Can’t you tell?”

“Not always.”

“I thought you were the expert,” Harvey starts laughing.

“Harvey,” Bruce tells him, with still eyes. “Call me foolish, but I think the only expert on you is you.”

“It’s a good day,” Harvey smiles. “A better one, now.”

Bruce smiles too.

It’s a good day.

There is only one patient who gets on Bruce’s nerves.

“Brucie!”

“Jack.”

Bruce doesn’t look forward to, or dread, his time with Jack. He simply accepts it, as he accepts everything else.

But Jack reacts with ecstasy every time Bruce approaches his cell. And then, something makes Bruce’s pulse beat a trifle too fast, his pupils dilate just a touch. He has trained himself out of having any recognizable emotion towards any of his patients. Jack reminds him he’s…not perfect.

One thing bothers him. He doesn’t _understand_ Jack.

Most people wouldn’t be bothered by not being able to get inside the mind of a homicidal maniac. Bruce isn’t one of those people.

He can’t imagine himself doing what Jack does, as he can imagine doing what Isley and Dent do. And he is afraid that gives Jack power over him.

Hence the heartbeat.

_Can you imagine it all too well? Are you afraid of how well you could relate?_

He breaths in and out.

 _I am afraid of Jack_. _And if he sees my fear, he may misinterpret it, and these sessions will come to a close._

Hence the heartbeat.

 _I could be Jack. I_ am _Jack._

_I’m just one bad day away._

“Do I disgust you, Brucie?” Jack asks sharply. Too sharply.

Bruce decides to be honest. “Yes.”

“Ah.” He takes in a breath. “Why?”

“Because I’m human.”

“Very good, Dr. Wayne. And pray tell me, when did you realize this? That you are…as you so delightfully put it…human?”

For the second time today, Bruce decides honesty is what is called for.

“When I met you.”

Selina Kyle. Former cat burglar. Killed 237 people. Turned herself in, after. Diagnosed with borderline personality disorder.

“I hate my mother.”

 _Borderline personality disorder my ass._ But he nods. She is good.

“Do _you_ hate your mother?” she purrs.

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

“For dying in a gutter.”

She started laughing, sultrily at first, then it got shriller. She thought she was sounding creepy. She was good. But Bruce had been immune to creepy laughter for some time now.

“I hate my mother for much the same thing." 

“For dying in a gutter?”

“In our bathtub. She slit her wrists.”

“It’s not the same”

“Excuse me?”

“My mother didn’t _choose_ to abandon me. Yours did.”

Selina Kyle, for the first time that night, becomes interesting. A dangerous glint comes into her eyes.

“You’re trying to provoke me. 237 murders,” she murmurs. “What’s one more, I wonder.”

“Ms. Kyle. You are not the first, I hope you know, to make that threat. And you won't be the last.”

“You’re a cool one.”

“Selina.” Bruce is exhausted. It is showing. “No more cat-and-mouse.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m not going to catch you. You know it and I know it. I don’t like games. We’re done here.” He stands up.

“Where are you going, handsome?”

“I’ll get you another doctor.”

“Why? Because you’re afraid your professional integrity may be threatened?” she smiles.

“My professional integrity would have put you in the electric chair. “

“Is that a yes?” she says unperturbed.

Bruce sighs.

“Tomorrow, Miss Kyle.”

“Get a good night’s sleep, handsome. And tell me what the stars were like, tonight.”

There is a lump in his throat.

When had this become his family?

When had Harvey and Jack and Pam and Selina become who he slept with at night? When had his shoulders started sagging more inside his own house than inside Arkham?

And when had he stopped feeling afraid?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do comment!  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

Group therapy. Because what could go wrong?

Everything, of course. Four of Gotham’s smartest criminals in the same room, and one…Bruce. Why was he doing this?

He wanted to see what would happen. When he brought his family together.

And when Jeremiah Arkham stood in the way? (As he would.) Good bye, Jeremiah Arkham. He was locked in the basement. Nobody missed him. There was a paper trail leading all the way to Switzerland. Dr Arkham had taken a much-needed sabbatical. Dr Wayne became head of Internal Psychiatry.

_The lunatics have taken over the asylum. Oh, Pa, if only you could see me now. You would be so proud._

“Group therapy,” said Bruce.

Bruce wanted Pam to meet Selina. He had a feeling they would hit it off.

“We all belong in solitary.” It was Harvey Goody-Goody Dent. Bruce missed Two Face sometimes.

“Don’t worry,” whispered Jack. “Not all of us do right now.”

Selina comes sashaying in. How did a woman manage to walk like a supermodel in an orange jumpsuit?

Jack whistles. Bruce feels his hackles rising. Selina arches one perfect eyebrow.

“I was thinking what a gorgeous carpet you’d make,” Jack said.

“Funny, I was just thinking the exact opposite of you.”

Pam comes in last. _She is my responsibility. She doesn’t know humans can be just as treacherous as plants._

Selina whistles.

“I hope Two-Face shows up. Poor Dent here doesn’t seem to be having any fun,” Jack says.

Bruce turns to him.

“Why so surprised, Brucie? You think I don’t keep tabs on you when you’re with your other…patients?”

Jack’s jealousy is something that could prove fatal to him. Bruce knows Muay Thai. And if he needs to, he knows exactly how he’ll use it.

In the outside world, if anyone touched his patients...

But in here…if one of them tries anything with the others…

_Selina, for instance. If she tries anything._

_Yes, he is prepared._ (Elbow jab to the trachea. Painless. No fuss, no blood. And he would join their ranks.)

"We’re kindred souls," Alfred whispers to him one day, the sun warm on his hands where he stood molding the dough for the cookies.

“What’s kindred?” whispers Bruce. He doesn’t know why they are whispering. All he knows is it is important.

“Kindred means family.”

“Oh, you mean like Mom and Dad and me?” Bruce asks.

_I was too young. Forgive me, Alfred, for I was too young._

“Yes, just like that,” Alfred answers, without a hitch in his voice. “Just like that.” Bruce can’t understand why his eyes go so glassy. But he is four, and he doesn’t bother with things like that.

Then the thing happens. Eight years later.

Bruce comes home that night, his cold hand clasped in Alfred’s warm, firm, big one. “My boy.” Alfred says.

My boy my boy my boy my boy my my my my boy My boy. The words bounce around in Bruce's head that night. He awakes with a start.

“My boy.” He rolls the words around on his tongue. “My boy.”

Why do the words reek of death to him? Why do they taste pale and flat?

The gun.

A gun. In a warm, firm, big hand.

 _My_ boy.

He looks into Alfred’s sad, sad eyes and sees the sad, sad truth.

He knows he can never stop loving Alfred. Never, as long as he can see him.

“Go, Alfred.” The words seem to come from far away, from some movie watched ages ago. “Go, and never return.”

Alfred’s eyes drain. “Yes, Master Bruce.” He walks away. He has wrenched himself free of his boy and his life, and is walking away to die like an old mad dog.

_No, Alfred. Do not go gentle into that good night._

_Mad dogs are put down._ Bruce lifts the gun.

_Y_ _ou would be so proud, Alfred. I have a family now._

_All you wanted was one too._

“So we sit around and tell each other sob stories,” says Pamela.

“No. No sob stories,” says Bruce. “That is the only rule.”

“I guess that rules out all my stock of stories then,” Jack says dramatically. Bruce has the sudden urge to roll his eyes. Selina has no compunction about rolling hers.

“We can play charades,” she suggests. They look at Bruce inquiringly. He shrugs.

“That was clearly Titanic.” Pamela says, irritated.

“How was I supposed to know?” Jack asks.

“Have you _ever_ watched Titanic?”

“No.”

Four jaws dropped.

“What?” Jack says. “It’s soppy.”

“People die”, says Pamela solemnly.

“Lots of people”, adds Two-Face with mock relish. Jack rolls his eyes.

“This is an oversight that needs to be corrected. Immediately.” says Selina.

That is how group therapy turned into movie night.

“I’m ugly.” Everyone turns to look at Harvey.

“Umm…”

“Sure.”

“Yeah.”

“You could say that.”

“Aren’t you guys supposed to be making me feel better?”

“You aren’t exactly in the Good Samaritan club, honey,” Selina points out.

“At least the ugly isn’t all over your face,” Pam says, with a pointedly sideways glance. Jack doesn’t rise to the bait.

Bruce was fading into the background. He liked it that way.

He had offered to get Harvey surgery. Two-Face refused.

“I want there to be something of me when I look in the mirror.”

Bruce sometimes wished there was something of _him_ when he looked in the mirror. But all he saw was his father’s perfection and his mother’s grace. He understood.

Two-Face had actually looked _relieved_.

“I hate your name,” Bruce informed him.

Two-Face smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment. I love it.


	3. Chapter 3

“Dr Harleen Quinzel.” The Arkham Regulatory Board Director announced.  
“No. Absolutely not.”

“Are you aware of her work?”

“I am familiar with Dr Quinzel, yes.”

“Then you know she came first in Princeton Medical School class of ’91.”

“Yes.”

“And what, may I ask, would be the problem?”

“I am afraid another mind of my caliber cannot be accommodated in Arkham.”

“ _Your_ caliber?”

“My patients cannot be interfered with.”

“But Dr Wayne…”

“That, he said, getting up, “is final.”

“Harley Quinn, at your service”, squealed the blonde in pinafore and pigtails.

“Dr Quinzel,” Bruce said severely.

“I go by Harley Quinn now.”

“Why?”

“It’s my stage name. I’m a stripper by night.”

Bruce recalled that of the many unpleasant memories in his life, Harleen had been part of almost all of them.

“Arkham does not employ strippers.”

“I’m seeking employ here as a psychiatrist.”

“I see.” Bruce tried to look his most severe. “Well, I’m afraid we currently do not require your services.”

He shut the door in her face. It felt good.

“Oooooh Dr Wayne,” Harleen sang from outside. “You didn’t ask me the password. _Jeremiah Arkham!_ ”

Surprisingly, the password worked.

Bruce was grumpy after that for weeks.

How Harleen knew that Jeremiah Arkham was in the basement and not on vacation in Europe was a mystery. And it wasn’t a mystery that she was clearing up any time soon.

“I just want to work here,” she told him.

“Why?”

“Because I’m bored.”

He was sorry he asked.

Jack tried to kill Selina.

Bruce supposed it was inevitable, in hindsight.

It started a war. Selina tried to kill Jack in return. Something about not appearing weak.

Bruce was kept with his hands full. Harleen had stripper engagements (apparently coinciding perfectly with when there was most work).

“You know I can’t help it,” says Jack. “I’m an agent of chaos.”

“And yet you’re the neatest man I’ve ever seen.” Bruce said, staring at Jack’s immaculately buttoned purple shirt.

But Jack was like a dog with a bone. “You two have been growing… _closer_. Admit it.”

Bruce did. Jack looked slightly taken aback. He had played his trump card, and Bruce had pretended it was a frigging _Joker_.

“Do you have feelings for her?” asks Jack.

“I have feelings for all of you. Not always good ones.”

Jack appears unrepentant.

“Dr. Quinzel will be your psychiatrist from now on.”

“I’ll kill her”, Jack says quietly, looking at Bruce.

“Not if she kills you first.”

At least he would be rid of one of them.

He was a genius.

He was, as it turns out, _not_ a genius.

He comes across Harleen and Jack making out, completely in flagrante of about sixty rules of professional decorum on Harley’s part, and nine on Jack’s.

They don't spring apart like guilty teenagers when caught. They slowly take their tongues out of each other’s mouths like long lasagna.

Bruce is about to throw up.

“Hey, B. I was just helping J here get some revenge, after you so cruelly used him, and then threw him away like a wet rag, my poor baby,” and here Harley raises her voice an octave plaintively, and pats Jack’s cheek.

Jack is clearly enjoying the attention, so Bruce is going to give him none of it.

He storms out of the room, and walks straight into Selina and Pam spooning up against a wall.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

It was almost enough to make him regret taking over the asylum. Maybe he should bring back Jeremiah Arkham, and let _him_ clean up this mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Share your thoughts! They don't necessarily have to be constructive. The rawer the better.


	4. Chapter 4

The Regulatory Board sniffed some ‘irregular workings’ at Arkham. There was a newspaper article about it.

 _Irregular_ , scoffed Pam as she watered her giant man-eating Venus fly traps, specifically bio-engineered by her with weeks of careful genetic grafting and crossbreeding.

“Careful where you put those,” Bruce told her.

“The idea is for them to catch something. Or some _one_ ,” Pamela said.

“Aren’t you ever afraid they’ll catch you?”

“Don’t be silly. Every plant knows its mommy.”

“Plants don’t have mommies.”

“These do.”

She whispered lullabies to them lovingly every night before going to bed. Bruce unaccountably thinks of Alfred...

Alfred and his papery kisses, his wisps of hair, gone prematurely gray.

Alfred sitting guard by Bruce’s bedside like a gargoyle when Bruce had a cold, and was sniffling like a miserable puppy. Alfred refusing to look down on him with shocked sorrow as his mom did (and then fluttered out of the room because she couldn’t bear to see her precious baby so sick, so please Alfred, will you take good care of him, I simply must attend the garden party at the St. Cloud's’, and I have absolutely nothing to wear…)

The plot, six by two on Wayne Manor, with the gravestone and the one stark simple word on it: _Kindred_.

And the skull underneath, with the gunshot in its back.

“His name is Jonathan Crane. He suffers from every phobia known to man.”

“That sounds awful.”

“It is. What’s more awful is, he wants everyone else to suffer like him.”

“A natural enough reaction.”

The DA looked scandalized.

“I mean, in his condition.”

“Twenty men have been incapacitated by their worst fears, thanks to his fear toxin.”

“Indeed.”

“And if it weren’t for our energetic police commissioner, it would have been all of us, including you and me. Someday, Bruce you have to meet him.”

Bruce was pretty sure he already had. The man was the typical American hero, all energy and dashing-ness. Never was there a man more fit to be in public service.

“I look forward to it.”

“He nails ‘em, you treat ‘em,” the DA sounded delighted. “You make a great team.”

Bruce had hated the Commissioner's mustache. It wiggled too much when the man spoke, and he kept unaccountably thinking of kissing it, and how horrible it must be for his wife. 

“We do, don’t we?” he smiled. “The greater the distance between us, the better we operate.” He got up.

He didn’t have any problems with the man. But the mustache? No, thank you.

Jonathan Crane was exactly as Bruce had pictured him. Young, nervous, with thin, long fingers, steepled together. The sensitive professor, undone with his love for the finer things in life.

He was going to be Bruce’s toughest patient. Especially because in his current state, Jonathan Crane was very, very unhappy.

Bruce could hardly let him ‘be free’ and hope for the best, as he had more or less done with the others. This man was suffering.

So the first thing Bruce did was expose him to his own fear toxin.

Apparently, Jonathan Crane was not at the pinnacle of his fear. There was always more where it came from. He couldn’t develop resistance. The fear toxin was the perfect weapon. If it ever fell into the hands of the military….Bruce shuddered.

So, as the next logical step, Bruce exposed himself. A minute dose, calculated to wear off in less than a week, for a man of Bruce’s constitution.

They were the worst sixty hours of his life.

Apparently, Bruce’s worst fears were lots of things. Jack raping him. Selina deciding he was delicious, and cannibalizing his heart. Two-Face killing Harvey Dent.

Bruce’s parents walking away, while he trailed after in his stupid nightgown, tripping over his own feet, calling Daddy, Mommy. Why didn’t they listen, why were they always so far away, why were they getting farther away, why didn’t they listen, why were they still walking?

Alfred getting shot. Blood on his hands.

And he lived all of them. Over and over.

He understood what it was like to be Jonathan Crane.

It was the worst feeling in the world.

“Jonathan!”

“Yes, sir.”

Jonathan had started calling him ‘sir’ ever since Bruce went through the horrible ordeal that he now mentally referred to as his ‘experiment’.

“What are you afraid of?”

It was the stupidest question. It was also the most obvious.

“Lots of things.”

“Yes, yes. But name them. Jonathan, we’re starting a list. Everything you’re afraid of.”

“I’m afraid the last time I had an inventory, I ran into the hundreds.”

“You are the bravest man I have ever known, Jonathan. You are brave enough to make that list.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Jonathan? Are you alone?”

The young man quivers.

“You won’t be. Every fortnight, I will spend sixty hours with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think.


	5. Chapter 5

Bruce had known he was a pedophile ever since he was fourteen.

He had felt an overwhelming tenderness towards a six year old French schoolgirl he saw walking down the street. Except this wasn't the I-want-to-buy-her-an-ice-cream sort of tenderness, but the I-want-to-buy-her - an-ice-cream-and- watch- her- lap- it-up-with-her- soft- pink- tongue sort.

He realized, to his disgust, that this was lust. He bought her the ice cream anyway. Then he warned her not to take food from strangers. 

Dick Grayson, trapeze artist at Haley's, was ten.

There was never a more beautiful boy in Heaven or on Earth. 

_I only window shop._

Dick's tight pants, as he swung on the trapeze. Dick's effortless grace. Bruce feels a small a frission of jealousy.

_Why wasn't I born a bird?_

It is his fate to cling heavily to Earth, while Dick flew. It is his fate to lust after what he could never have, long for what he shouldn't want. It is the fate of his thirst to remain forever unquenched. 

It is his fate to be mortal, and Dick's to be divine. 

_It is our fate, my love. It is for us all the poetry in the world was ever written. But what is all of that besides you?_

_You are all the poetry I need. And I am content to watch, just watch, until the end of time._

_I can watch you fly forever, Dick Grayson._

Dick's parents were...lesser versions of him. Slower, clumsier, although they were both master acrobats who’d grown up on the trapeze.

Dick was on another level. 

In his most private, most personal, most uncensored fantasies, Bruce did the unthinkable. 

He killed Dick's parents. 

_You deserve to fly alone, Dick Grayson. You deserve to shine alone._

_You deserve to have all the applause._

The circus was having twelve performances in Gotham. Bruce went to every one.

There was nothing but Dick everywhere. _Dick, Dick, Dick._ He saw nothing else. 

There was nothing else to see. 

In the twelfth performance, Bruce saw a man head backstage. A man Bruce had never seen there before. A man whose body language spoke of secrecy and fear. 

A man Bruce saw severing the trapeze wires. 

_No!_

He rushed forward, and threw him down, just before the third wire went. 

_No._

_Not my bird._

_You killed my bird._

_You killed my little bird._

“Do you know what I am?” a voice growled out of Bruce’s throat. But it wasn’t his voice.

“I am vengeance.”

Outside, he hears a voice. The little bird. And the sound it's making is familiar. Bruce had made that sound, once in an alley.

He drops the man, and rushes out.

Afterwards, Dick clings to him.

Bruce _knows_.

Dick needs him.

Dick needs _him_.

 _My_ boy.

The little bird steals. The little bird swears. And the little bird pisses his pants on purpose, so someone would tell him off. Bruce makes no encouragement, so Dick upps his game.

He lets Jeremiah Arkham go. 

Bruce, when he finds out, is beside himself. 

With laughter. The little bird can do no wrong. 

There was a tracker in Jeremiah. He hunts him down at leisure.

“You're spoiling the kid.” Pamela says. 

Even Jack agrees. But then Jack's opinions was never the gold standard of parenting advice. Apparently, his father had broken a beer bottle on his head every day since he was five till he ran away at seventeen. And look how he'd turned out. 

One night, Dick had a particularly bad dream. Badder than all the others. 

He woke up trembling. “Zitka!” he shouted. 

Then he remembered. Zitka was at the circus. And he was at the asylum. 

He crept into Bruce's bed, and snuggled close. Bruce was warm. Warm as a toaster. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” He whispered. 

“Hm.” 

That was one thing he had learned. Bruce was always awake. Even when he was asleep. 

“I tasted my parents' brains.” 

Bruce goes still, but his voice is level.

“Why?”

“I wanted to see what they tasted like.” 

“And what did they taste like?” 

“Nasty.” 

“Hn.” 

“Am I a bad person?” 

“That's a question for God.”

“But you _are_ God.” 

“Only in the asylum”, Bruce laughed. “Can I tell _you_ a secret?” 

“Yes. Please.”

“I tasted my parents' brains too.”

“Why?”

“Because I was a kid. I didn't know how to react. To death. It was too big.” 

“Hm. Your answer is better than mine.” 

Bruce laughs. “Go to sleep, little bird.”

“Robin.” 

“Hm?” 

“My mother used to call me Robin.” 

“Go to sleep, Robin.” 

“Can you sing me a lullaby?” 

“No. I don't sing.” 

“Can _I_ sing?”

“Yes.”

And Dick belts out the version of 'C'est Magnifique' his mother used to put him to sleep with, complete with four 'la's. 

“My father used to say I was too old for lullabies.” 

“No one is too old for lullabies.” 

“The other boys used to make fun of me for singing.” 

“You have a beautiful voice. They were jealous.”

“You really think so?”

“Yes. Now go to sleep. Tomorrow's a big day.” 

“Why? What's happening tomorrow?”

“You're going to school.” 

Dick, upon hearing this news, promptly falls asleep. 

"It's called sex pollen." Ivy announces.

"We can market it," Harleen squeals.

"No." Bruce puts his metaphorical foot down firmly.

"Why not?" 

"That would be criminal. This is a respectable establishment." 

(Only he has the gravitas to carry off such a statement.)

Dick comes surfboarding down the stairs. 

"Dick, you will break your nose." 

"Good. I don't like it anyway."

"Well I do. I won't pay for a new one. And have you done your homework?"

Dick ignores him. 

Bruce sighs. _What did I do wrong?_

My version of [Bruce](https://pin.it/6bqa63cdvhoirt)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do comment.


	6. Chapter 6

Bruce walks down Crime Alley, strewing flowers. _Like a fool. Like a lovestruck fool._

It is his mother's birthday. And he'd chosen to commemorate her death. 

_For you, Ma. For you._

_Because I always loved you, as you were. Flawed, as you were._

_And you loved an idea of me. Cherished an ideal of me._

_Brave, noble, kind hearted, generous. Not the coward I was. Not the bully I was. Not the snob I was._

_To you, I was someone else._

_Your White Knight._

_Well, Ma, I've got some news for you._

_I'm black all the way through._

He scatters the last of the flowers, over the spot which was her true grave, where her brains had splattered. 

_Happy birthday, Ma._

A footstep rings behind him.

“Hands up.”

Bruce obeys. 

“Now slowly, very slowly, put your right hand in your jacket pocket, and remove your wallet.”

Bruce obeys. 

“Put it down.” 

He obeys. 

“Kick it over.”

He does.

“Get on your hands and knees.”

“What?” 

“I said get on your fucking hands and knees, pretty boy.” 

The voice is rasping, all command. 

Bruce obeys. 

Thin hands undo his belt bucke. His pants are shoved down. A zipper opens.

“Can I at least see your face first?” 

A laugh. “That's not how this works.” 

“Right. Because you would know.”

The boy – _it couldn’t be more than a teenager_ \- draws in a sharp breath. 

“Lean forward.”

“Lube. Use saliva.” 

“No. This needs to hurt.” 

“Please. It's my first time. I don't want to remember it...like this,” Bruce whimpers. 

There is a sharp huff of a laugh. “Pretty boy. Pretty rich asshole. You ain't gonna get it how you want it. You're gonna get it my way.” 

And he pushes inside. 

“Please...wear a condom.” 

The kid laughs again. 

“That's not how this works, pretty boy.” 

Bruce just wanted to keep him talking forever. His voice was everything that was helping him get through this day. This, his mother's birthday. 

“Who're you strewing flowers for?” the kid asks between thrusts. 

“My mother”, Bruce pants. 

“Huh. She die here?” 

“Yeah.” 

“How ironic. 

“What a big word for a street kid.” 

"Shut up, asshole, or I'll -" 

“You'll what? Fuck me?” 

“No, I was gonna say blow your brains out.” 

“Huh. Just like my mother.” 

The kid stops moving. 

“You know, it _would_ be poetic,” he muses. 

This time, it’s Bruce's turn to snap. 

“Fuck you.” 

This was not pleasant, as far as rapes went. On his mother's birthday, of all days. Why didn't he just piss on her grave while he was at it?! 

“So, you rich motherfucker, you wanna fuck me?” the boy whispers in his ear. 

Bruce has had about enough. He pulls away, twists around and drives his knee into the insolent motherfucker's balls. He goes down with a grunt. Bruce cracks his knuckles against his nose.

“Jesus fuckity fuck!” 

“Not how you wanted to remember your first time, huh?” 

“Wasn't my first time, you fucking shithole.” 

“Hm.” 

The kid was lying. 

“Well, here's another one. I was _letting_ you fuck me, because you are a kid, and I wanted a kid to fuck me good.”

The boy looks up. His blue eyes are filled with hate. “Fucking perv.”

“Yeah. Get up. What's your name?” 

“Andy.” 

“Alright, Andy. Stand up.” 

“Can't.”

“Sure you can. You've got those magnificent balls.” 

“Don't talk about my balls.” 

“They're magnificent. Now stand up. I'm going to take you to the hospital.”

Andy's eyes widen.

“Don't worry, kid. I'll say you're my younger brother, and you got into a street fight.” 

“Do I _look_ like your younger brother?” 

“With my kind of money, people learn not to ask questions.” 

“Fucking rich asshole.” 

“Yeah, you're real inventive. Come on, one foot in front of the other.” 

They reach his car. “Hey, there's no way I'm getting in.” 

Bruce shoves him inside, and locks the door. 

“Hey!” 

A shot fires, shattering the window. 

_Shit._ He’d forgotten Andy had a gun. Still, the boy had magnificent balls. 

“Kill me, and where does that leave you?” He asks, getting in. 

“With a dead guy in a car?” 

“Yeah. A mess. Now sit back. And if I don't stop at the hospital, you can put a bullet in me.” 

“Jesus fuck.” There were tears running down Andy's face. 

“What's your real name, kid?” Bruce asked starting the engine. 

“What's it to you?” He screamed. 

“That's true”, Bruce mused aloud. “What's in a name?

“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. 

“And a rapist with any other name would be a rapist.”

“Promise you won't turn me in.” 

“Kid.” Bruce meets his eyes in the rear view mirror. “I don't do promises.” 

The boy passes out. 

“Bruce!” 

“Selina, what are you doing here?”

“Well, you called for Dick.” 

“Yes, and?” 

“Bruce, do you know the first rule of childrearing?”

“I have a feeling you're about tell me.” 

“You don't let a boy like Dick come all the way across Gotham alone.” 

Bruce feels chastened. What if Andy had found Dick instead of him? 

_Pretty boy. Pretty rich asshole._

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you, Selina.”

“You have no sense.” 

“Selina, you can't be out here.” 

“Relax”, she smiles. “You aren't the only one good at blending in.” 

The boy is Jason. Jason Todd. Age 16. Orphan. Foster home runaway. Two years in juvie for stealing tires.

“He looks like hell," Selina says. “He'll fit right in.”

“No,” Bruce says. “I'm sending him to a youth rehab centre. I don't want him around Dick.” 

Selina sees dark red droplets drop out of Bruce’s trousers. 

“Bruce. What did he do to you?”

“It was my fault. I allowed him to...” 

“Why would you?” 

“Because I'm not a saint, all right?” He snaps. 

“I'm sorry,” he sighs.

“Sit down. Let me get you a coffee.” 

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

Selina looks at him. “Bruce. I have nowhere else to be. Now are you taking that coffee or not?” 

When Jason awakes, he is home. 

Ma and Pa are at it again. 

He crawls into the closet, under the coat hangers. 

“Aee! Jesus!” His mother screams. 

His father is yanking her hair. Jason cackles. _Bitch deserved it._

She burned him with the hair iron last Tuesday. He could still feel the heat of it.

His father lights a matchstick.

“Bitch,” Jason cackles. “Give it to her, Pa.”

His mother picks up the poker. 

“Put it down, Trudy,” his father says calmly. 

“Yeah, when it's got your fucking head on it.”

His father laughs. 

“You bitch. Always so fucking dramatic.”

“You cheating fuck!” His mother screams. 

It’s the last thing his father hears. 

Jason is sitting in a pool of vomit and blood. He vomits again. The apartment smells of shit. 

His mother had made a run for it. She hadn't forgotten the hair iron though. 

The poker stands next to the pool table. 

Jason picks it up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what I'm going to say.


	7. Chapter 7

“So how're things going?” asks Leslie. 

“Good.” 

She looks at him. 

“Okay. Dick is making progress at school. Harvey is getting better at negotiating with Two-Face. Jack...has gone six months without trying to kill anyone.”

“And what about you?” 

He thinks. 

“I'm okay.” 

She waits. 

“I'm...tired.”

“Yes. Running a mental health institution can be a lot of responsibility.” She’s watching him carefully.

“You know what, Leslie? I don't think these sessions are working.” 

He stands up.

“Good bye.”

He couldn't tell her anything about how things were at the asylum. She wouldn't understand. 

She would complicate things. 

Jonathan Crane had been making no progress. He was under suicide watch. Bruce had religiously taken his dose of fear toxin every fortnight in full view of Jonathan. 

'Sometimes I wonder who's the crazy one,' Harleen mutters. 

'He's trying to make him feel less alone.'

'That boyfriend of yours is a masochist.'

'He's not my boyfriend.' 

Bruce analyzes blood samples tirelessly, working on an antidote. None of the regular anti-anxiety drugs were working. Neither were psychotherapy, hypnotherapy, exposure therapy. 

Jonathan Crane hangs himself. Jack has something to do with it.

“Poor bastard,” says Jack. “I'd want that. I'd want somebody to have the decency to do that.”

It is the first time on record that Jack has shown empathy. Bruce supposes it is progress.

Still, Jonathan Crane is on him, not on Jack. 

He has failed.

Two weeks after Crane dies, Bruce finds the antidote.

Jack Napier was born in a perfect middle-class family. Everything was perfect.

Jack Napier was wrong.

He had a scratchy feeling inside that told him he was all wrong, but he couldn’t find out how.

His mother took him to see doctors. They gave him tests. They showed him pictures. They made him talk.

“What’s wrong?”

“How are you feeling?”

“What brings you here today?”

“Nothing.”

“Very good, thank you.”

“I don’t know.”

Finally, his mother tired of him, and had another baby. It was perfect. Everyone was happy.

Jack was relieved. Now his mother wouldn’t bother him all the time, wouldn’t tell him to keep smiling.

When Jack was twenty-one, he had his first physical symptom. An anxiety attack!

Apparently, it was normal. He was a junior, his finals were coming up.

He was normal.

He goes to another doctor.

“Something’s wrong with me, doc.”

The doctor’s eyes rest on him. He doesn’t ask Jack how he is feeling. He doesn’t ask him what is wrong. He doesn’t ask him what is right.

His face registers no emotion at all. His eyes are pools of stillness.

Jack looks at him for five minutes. Then he gets up.

“Thank you, doc.”

_I’m another middle-class man living a middle-class day in a middle-class life. And I’m okay._

_I am okay._

Blue eyes, infinitely deep.

“Can I please see Dr. Wayne?”

“Oh, Dr. Wayne is a resident doctor at Arkham,” the receptionist at Gotham City informs him with a smile. “He only comes here once a week.”

“But I _want_ to see him. How do I get admission in Arkham?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to have committed some horrendous crime,” she laughs. “And then be certified as mentally ill. But we do have several other experienced doctors on our faculty. Here.”

Jack takes the proffered pamphlet. “Thank you.”


	8. Chapter 8

The doorbell rings.

“I got it!” Dick shouts.

Naturally, the reception room of the asylum was kept normal, although Pamela had once proposed putting a bunch of mutant Brazilian Peppers in the corner to ‘spice it up’.

A boy stands outside. He is fastidiously dressed, down to his shoelaces. Dick feels rather awkwardly aware of his own state, which was generally termed, rather generously, ‘unkempt’.

_What twelve year old wears cufflinks?_

“You must be Dick Grayson!” he smiles. There was just the right amount of cheerfulness, courtesy and nervousness in his voice. That makes Dick suspicious.

He remembers Bruce’s gem of paranoid wisdom: _beware of someone who is being too genuine. Everyone is an actor. When the seams don’t show, you’re dealing with a professional_.

“Yes.”

“I’m Tim Diamond.”

Dick smiles. “Really?”

“Yes. You’ve read the books?”

“Of course I have! Who hasn’t?”

“Well, it’s a pesky coincidence.”

_This guy’s good. He chose an alias no one would suspect of being fake, because who would pick an alias straight out of a well-known children’s book?_

“Come on in, Tim. Oh, wait. Who are you?”

“Sorry,” says Tim sheepishly, holding out his press pass.

And sure enough, it says Tim Diamond.

“I’m working with Gotham Gazette on a summer internship, and they assigned me to interview Dr. Bruce Wayne.”

“But wait. You’re like twelve.”

“Actually, I’m eighteen. I suffer from Torand’s Syndrome. It slows down my growth exponentially.”

“Oh.” Dick doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

Tim smiles. “It’s okay. It’s just a condition. I don’t let it rule my life.”

“Er, that’s very brave of you,” Dick says. He doesn’t know how do this. “Come in, of course!”

Tim steps in. Dick likes him already. So what if he is eighteen?

“Um…Bruce isn’t here right now. I have no idea when he’s coming back.”

“He…leaves you here? Alone?”

Dick laughs. _This again._

“Arkham Asylum has a world-class security system, which is linked into every major security agency. I’m safer here than I would be at the Pentagon.”

Tim is earnestly scribbling.

“Erm…aren’t you supposed to know all this? I thought you journalists did background research or something.”

“No, I’m just writing ‘investigate gross negligence towards ward’.”

“Very funny.” _Who the fuck did this cocksucker think he was?_ “Suck my dick.” He winced right after saying it.

Tim laughs out loud.

“Hey, I know a thing or two about negligence,” he says quietly, after a while. “Trust me.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dick says. “You’re good at this, you know that?”

Tim scribbles ‘trust issues’ discreetly on his pad under ‘Ward’.

“Do you think I could get something to eat?”

Tim may be eighteen, but he munches nachos like a twelve-year old. This would be a giveaway, if Dick was not distracted at the time by the nachos.

“Will you give me the tour?”

“Urm…” This was charting into unexplored territory, fast. What was the protocol for this?

“I don’t think I’m authorized to do that,” Dick enunciated the word _authorized_ properly. He’s pleased with himself.

Tim frowns. “Oh.”

He looks like he ‘s disappointed, and he’s trying to hide it.

“Sorry. You know how it is. Rules, and all that.”

Dick had no idea how he’d kept a straight face saying that, thinking of Jeremiah Arkham downstairs.

Jeremiah Arkham had recovered all his hair. He had also put away a sizable amount of fat. He liked reading the paperbacks that had struck his fancy during his, er, _busier_ days. He furiously and loudly cursed Bruce Wayne when the man brought him his meals, then scratched his tummy and returned to his soaps.

Tim keeps asking for more and more refreshments, with an ease of manner that seems to say _this is perfectly acceptable, because look at how refined I am; everything I do has to be in accordance to form._

He specifically asks for a grilled cheese sandwich. Extra cheese, extra grilled, extra sandwich.

Dick looks unbelieving.

 _The food cravings must be a symptom of the Torand’s. Yes! He must be experiencing a growth spurt._ This Eureka moment half-convinces Dick that Tim will have grown an inch taller when he comes back. He gets up to make the sandwich. 

Bruce is busy.

He has financed a charity in the East End. _Selina’s East End_. He has done so anonymously.

The purpose of this charity: to help Jason Todd.

Jason is a hooker. He had escaped a month ago from the rehab facility Bruce semi-voluntarily put him in, and has serviced six clients so far. This charity rescues hookers, especially teenage boys.

 _A growing market._ The bile is thick in Bruce’s stomach.

Hence, purely in the interest of charity, he stalks Jason. And if he breaks into Jason’s clients’ homes and expertly fractures their bones while wearing a Halloween mask, no one has to know.

Then it occurs to him. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? Jason charges $800 per hour. Exorbitant, but he was still in demand.

And if he was with someone who cared…

Someone with whom he was in total control…

Someone who wouldn’t hurt him…

But if Jason knew it was Bruce, there was no way this scheme would work.

Bruce sighs. He hates Old Matches.

“Two Mai Tais. One for the gentleman over there.”

Matches Malone is a middle rung drug dealer, who occasionally indulges his…lesser passions. Jason would sniff danger, excitement, maybe a little sadism. All the things he was into.

“Jason.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I do my homework.” Matches Malone is a no-nonsense guy. Jason is his type.

“Really. An escort.”

“You’re the talk of the town.” Matches’ voice drops lower. “I think I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

Jason stiffens.

“Was that you in Bludhaven the other night?”

Jason relaxes minutely, and shrugs. “It may have been.”

 _Shit. Bludhaven?_ It had been a shot in the dark. _Why, Jason, why?_

“Well, let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

Jason shrugs nonchalantly, and finishes his drink. “It’s- ”

“I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

_Jason._

_Why?_

Matches Malone leads Jason to his car.

“In the car? Real classy.”

He smiles wryly. “No. Not _in_ the car. I’m taking you someplace.”

“Where?”

“Let it be a surprise.”

Jason is still doubtful. Matches lights a match.

“My father liked playing with matches,” Jason says.

“Yeah?” he asks casually. “Was he the fun kind or the not fun kind?”

“The not fun kind.”

“And let me guess. I remind you of your father.”

“Maybe.”

“More than you’re comfortable with?”

“Yeah.”

Jason is starting to walk away. _Fuck fuck fuck._

“Jason.”

Jason turns around and stares. Bruce takes off his mustache.

“Come back with me.”

Bruce had expected lots of things. He expected Jason to lash out at him, knee him in his balls, call him every sort of fucker, draw out his gun (smart kid) and shoot him.

_Whatever it takes to get back my Argonaut._

_I should never have let you go._

Jason just stands there, and stares. His thick eyelashes, his nose, his chin, his hands, his feet. All Jason. Every part of Jason. Staring.

And then one luminescent, lonely tear falls out.

“It’s too late.”

Jason draws out his gun. Bruce has no time to react.

“Dad, I’m sorry.”

He pulls the trigger.


	9. Chapter 9

_Selina, you were right._

_I should have listened to you._

_Selina you were right._

_I should have listened._

_Selina._

_You’re always right._

_I should listen._

_Dear God, give me back my life._

_And I will always listen to Selina Kyle._

Bruce meets Jonathan Crane.

“I found the antidote. I thought it would interest you to know.”

“A bit late for that, aren’t we.”

“Yeah. But I found it. I solved the case.”

“You deserve a medal.”

“The point is not that I didn’t save your life. The point is that I _could have_.”

“Good to know.”

“Why couldn’t you have hung around? (No pun intended.) What were two more weeks?”

“I thought the point wasn’t to save me.”

Interesting how both sides sounded like Bruce.

Dick and Tim lounge outside.

“All the other kids are too afraid to come and hang out with me. They think I’m contagious or something.”

“Huh. But you’re just another normal circus boy with dead parents adopted by the warden of an asylum chock full of serial killers.”

“Fuck you.”

“Do you ever talk to them?”

“Stop fishing.”

“Not like you have a great many other options when it comes to company.”

Dick turns to him. “You’d be surprised.”

“So surprise me.”

Dick punches him. He half expects Tim to recoil, or gnash his teeth. Instead, he rolls with it.

Like Bruce had taught Dick to, in Elementary Self-Defense Skills 101. (Bruce took it upon himself to teach it to Dick because of the serial killer situation above mentioned.)

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Oh, you know…here and there,” Tim answers.

“Here and there? _You don’t say_.” Dick says with exquisite sarcasm.

“I take kung fu classes.”

“Cool!”

“Yeah.”

“I wish Bruce would teach me kung fu. I’m sure he knows it. He knows lots of stuff.”

“I can teach you.”

“Can you really?”

“Yeah. But you’ll have to do me a favor in return.”

“What?” Dick narrows his eyes.

“Make me another grilled cheese sandwich. Extra cheese, extra grilled, extra sandwich.”

“I’m not a doormat.”

“I am aware.”

“Okay. As long as you know.” Dick goes in.

“And call me sensei!” Tim calls after him.

This was going to be trickier than he had thought.

Dick knew that Bruce had access to a database somewhere, of all the faces and names in Gotham. Complete with fingerprints. Tim–or whatever his name is–has to be on it. He hears a sound.

Someone’s taking something apart. The security system is break-out proof. But Dick isn’t so sure about a break-in.

“What are you doing?” Dick grits out.

Tim turns. The gate is standing open. Laughter and murmurs drift out.

“I’m going to find out what you all have been hiding.”

“What the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

“And it’s going to be the scoop of the year.”

“What scoop? There _is_ no scoop. And there is no such thing as Torand’s. Yeah, I checked! Your cover’s been blown, sucker.”

Both boys stand warily, uncertain how to proceed.

“What the fuck is even your _real_ name?” Dick growls, pushing a frown onto his face.

Tim’s shoulders melt. He starts sniffling. “Timothy Jackson Drake. Please don’t tell my parents.”

And that is when Dick catches sight of the _real_ Tim. A nervous, scared, lonely, compulsively curious boy, all of whose confidence came from a lie. Dick starts laughing.

“You made me believe you were eighteen! Man! I cannot believe I _fell_ for that.” He slaps his thigh, and rolls around on the floor, rigid with laughter. “Bruce _has_ to meet you. You’re like a younger version of him!” and Dick guffaws.

“Please stop. You’re making me very uncomfortable.”

“ _There_ he is.” Dick collects himself from the floor and wipes his tears, still jerking with silent laughter. “You think you’re uncomfortable _now_?

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”


	10. Chapter 10

My Momma told me when I was young

We are all born superstars.

_Why is Lady Gaga playing in the afterlife?_

She rolled my hair up and put my lipstick on

In the glass of her boudoir…

_My momma’s boudoir. Her pearls. Around her exquisite pillar of a neck._

There’s nothing wrong with loving who you are, she said,

‘Cause he made you perfect babe.

_But what if I’m not perfect, Ma? What if I’m broken? Like you?_

So hold your head up and you’ll go far…

_Shut the fuck up, bitch. I’ve held my head up this far. Look at where it’s gotten me. I’ve come full circle, to the gutter._

I’m beautiful in my way

Cause God makes no mistakes

_Shut the fuck up, bitch._

I’m on the right track baby,

I was born this way.

_Shut the fuck up._

Bruce opens his eyes. Thomas is standing above him.

“Bruce! What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like, Dad? I thought it would be a fun afternoon activity to jump from a tree and sprain my ankle.”

“Oh, Bruce.” Thomas shook his head.

“Help me.”

He tut-tutted. “God helps those who help themselves. Get up.”

“I can’t.”

“Then I can’t help you, son.”

“You’re not God! You’re my _father_. You’re _supposed_ to help!”

Thomas smiles serenely and walked back towards the Manor.

And Bruce drags his leg, limp and weary, back over the grounds. It takes half an hour. And when he gets home, he spits into his father’s face, white flecks.

“I wish I had never been born!”

_Arise, my son._

_Yes, father._

_Thy will be done._

And Bruce rose.

“Selina!”

“I’m coming.”

She opens her door. There’s paint peeling off it. _I really need to get to that._

“Yeah?”

“Something’s happened. Come on!”

“The orphanage. It’s on fire!” another voice pushes through.

Selina rushes out like her life depended on it.

_Not the orphanage._

“Maggie!”

_Maggie Maggie Maggie Maggie Maggie Maggie Mags Maggie_

_No not her. Please God, not her. Spare her, and take the rest._

_Take everyone else._

Faulty fire safety measures, they say. Costs have been scrimped on, corners have been cut. All inconvenience is regretted.

Everyone who has touched the project is dirty. They are all going to pay.

Selina gets to every last one. Orphan, the newspapers called her. They were not slow to catch on the connection between the victims, after her 60th.

Her 61st is Bruce Wayne. He has his fingers in every pie in Gotham. So it is natural.

“Hello.”

Selina hisses, and arches her back.

“You must be here for me.”

Bruce Wayne is lying on his bed. The room is darkness, swathed and draped all around with damask curtains. His head is on a luxurious pillow. His eyes are shut.

“Here I am.”

He speaks softly, almost to himself.

Selina leans forward, and softly lashes his neck. Her whip winds around the cord of muscle like it has a will of its own.

The noose tightens. Bruce continues to breathe softly. He makes no attempt to struggle.

“Maggie.” Selina whispers.

Bruce opens his eyes. They glow like a cat’s.

“Thomas.” He whispers.

The noose gets tighter. He is gurgling now.

“M-arth-a.”

It is artistically done. He admires that about her. Finesse.

“Al--fred.”

He closes his eyes, even as his face becomes puffed up and red by his body’s efforts to breathe.

Bruce and Selina broadcast on the same frequency. They say _something_ to each other that night. Not words of wisdom. Not words of joy, or courage, or hope. Not words of forgiveness or love or peace. A connection on a more primal level. Like scent.

When words stop _having_ meaning, and _become_ meaning. _I see you. You see me. We see each other._ They are two wild animals in a forest.

_We are not one. I am me, and you are you. And we each have our own concerns._

_But some of our stars are the same._

Jason walks home. He starts packing. Stuffs his shirts, baggy trousers, socks, parka, jackets into his knap. He doesn’t know where he is going. All he knows is he’s getting out of this shithole.

And he’s not taking any of his cash.

He crumples wads of bills into his pocket, walks out and dumps it into the arms of the first beggar he sees.


	11. Chapter 11

“People matter.

“People are what I stand for.”

Thunderous cheers erupt. The prosecutor with the cherubic face stands on the dais while applause breaks out, and smiles.

Harvey Dent has just put away five of Gotham’s most notorious gangsters for life. There is going to be no peace for him after this. He is going to live the rest of his life looking over his shoulder.

_People are fickle._

_Tomorrow they will forget me._

_But_ I _will be the one living with the shadow for the rest of my life._

In that moment, he resents Gotham from the bottom of his heart. The city has taken his lifeblood. The rush of victory is over. His dreary life stretches out before him like a noir film, devoid of color.

_They tell you victory is sweet. They tell you heroes are cut from a different cloth from the rest, that they feel no resentment after the daring rescue is over. That they don’t hate you from the bottom of their hearts when they go home to lick their wounds._

_They are wrong._

He just wants to dissolve.

_In each of us, two natures are at war---the good and the evil. All our lives, the fight must go on between them and one of them must conquer._

Harvey Dent laughs. He’s seen enough of humanity to know that this isn’t true of almost everyone. Most people are either mostly good or mostly bad. There are very, very few who are balanced precariously on the edge of the knife.

Those either split or lose their mind. Harvey has to choose between two different types of crazy.

_In our own hands lies the power to choose—what we want most to be, we are._

He flips a coin.

_Man is not truly one, but truly two. Of the two natures that contend in the field of his consciousness, even if he could rightly be said to be either, it is only because he is radically both._

A coin doesn’t ask itself which of its faces is its _right_ face or its _true_ face. It accepts both faces as its own – though they be diametrically opposed, though they be experiencing opposite sides of life.

 _If each could be housed in separate identities, life would be relieved of all that was unbearable;_ _  
the unjust might go his way, delivered from the aspirations and remorse of his more upright twin; and the just could walk steadfastly and securely on his upward path, doing the good things in which he found his pleasure, and no longer exposed to disgrace and penitence by the hands of this extraneous evil._

Well, he can’t guarantee that last part. Harvey Dent would have to partake of the consequences of Two Face’s evil. When you sell your soul to the devil inside, you may own yourself, but you are also your own captive.

Now he just needs to know how to induce dissociation.

Harvey is good at getting information out of people they don’t want getting out of them, or information they do not perceive the uses for. It comes as naturally to him as breathing.

“Bruce!”

“Harvey.” Bruce Wayne smiles. Harvey feels a warmth spreading like maple syrup from his torso to his fingertips.

Bruce is the only person in Gotham Harvey doesn’t currently hate. But he’s _also_ good at what Harvey does best. Still, Harvey suspects he has an edge.

“The weather, huh. Hasn’t rained like this since October.”

“Yes.” Bruce undoes his raincoat. “Do you recognize this cut?”

“What, the jacket?”

“No. The raincoat, silly.”

“Um…no. Should I?”

Bruce’s eyes say that he does not expect Harvey to know the answer. He’s eager to tell him.

“It’s the one Patrick wears when he kills Allen.”

“You don’t say.” Harvey couldn’t understand Bruce’s fascination with Patrick Bateman. The two men could not be more unlike, despite sharing an eerie resemblance.

Bruce seems to read his mind. “Opposites attract, Harv.”

“Really. Then explain why we’re still friends.”

“You have such a posh view of yourself, don’t you?” Bruce says. But his eyes are laughing. “I really don’t know. Maybe we’re the exception.”

“Maybe,” says Harvey, just as it occurs to him that maybe they’re not.

At this point, Bruce puts the raincoat back on.

“Okay. Watch this.”

He sashays his hips from side to side with a perfect choreography, mouthing the words from It’s Hip to Be Square.

Harvey bursts out laughing. “What would your patients think of the great Dr Bruce Wayne if they saw you now?”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re not one of my patients.”

“Dissociation is induced when a traumatic situation becomes too much for a person to cope with, but not too much for a _part_ of him. Generally takes place in children at an early age, when the persona is still forming. For it to happen in an adult would require a shock of such a magnitude it would probably kill him first.”

“Oh. And if the person was already of two minds?”

“We’re _all_ of two minds, Harv. Many more, in fact. This doesn’t actually have anything to do with a case, now, does it?”

“No.” Harvey looks down, and pulls out the volume of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde he’s been perusing. “I’ve been reflecting on duality.”

The grave look of reserved concern that Bruce usually uses to talk to his patients comes into his eyes.

“Harvey. Whatever it is, you know you can talk to me, right?”

“Yes, Bruce.”

“And if you don’t want to talk, that’s okay too. I’d be happy just to sit with you and enjoy a drink.”

“Bruce.” Harvey gets up, and puts one hand on his shoulder. “I’m _fine_. Stop worrying so much.”

Bruce doesn’t look convinced. “I usually worry when there is a cause.” Years of experience had taught him to trust his gut.

“You’re not alone, Harvey.”

Harvey starts laughing. “Alone?” Jesus, what he would give to feel _alone_ right now.

“If anything, right now, I’m feeling too crowded.”

Bruce misunderstands this as a hint that he should leave. By habit, he doesn’t stay a moment more in a place he isn’t wanted. Courtesy without malice.

“Alright.”

“No wait, Bruce, I didn’t mean…”

“No, it’s okay, Harv. You need some time alone with your thoughts. I’ll be there when you need me.” Bruce looks at him, and repeats firmly, as if convincing himself, “I’ll always be there.”

“Goodbye, Bruce.” He knows this is the last time _he_ is talking to his friend.

“Goodbye, Harvey.”

The price for our birth is paid by someone else. It’s always someone else’s blood, someone else’s shrieks of pain that give us life.

Birth and death. So intimately connected. Without one, the other has no meaning.

What had Bruce said? _A shock of such a magnitude, it would kill him first._

Harvey Dent, as he was, had to die for Two-Face to be born. But what sort of event was so traumatizing it could catalyze one without hurting the other?

Harvey Dent had to be put in a situation that only Two-Face could get him out of.

And then he would turn to Two-Face. Just to escape the pain.

The buses of Sheffield Primary School were leaving the gates. Children streamed out of the school, chattering. Not all of them left by bus. Some walked.

Sarah Anne Mary, or Sam for short, made her way over curb and to the other side. Her mother had always told her to keep her head down and walk quickly through the alley opposite. Don’t stop, don’t answer any questions, and if any passersby give you funny looks, run. Better to look foolish than be sorry.

_She is perfect._

A scream.

“Go kid! Run! I don’t think I can hold him back much longer,” the man with the gun pinning her to the wall says.

He seems to be struggling to let her go. He drops the gun from his hands and tried to pry his other hand open. He can’t. So he picks up the gun and (while she screams) shoots himself.

“Ow!”

Sam shakes herself free, and runs down, towards the street.

“Come here you brat! Get back here!”

Harvey picks up the gun, and puts it in his mouth. He cocks it.

Two face bites down hard on his hand. Blood streams from his fingers.

Harvey sees and hears the rest from far away.

The gunshot. The girl drop. Himself saying, “Two for one. Fair trade.”

And then it goes blank.


	12. Chapter 12

Bruce wakes up. He smells raspberry jam and used diapers. Great. His least favorite dumpster.

He is numb. The edges of his vision are blue like a picture frame. He can hear himself hacking away with a bad cough.

Just another bloody hobo with an abdominal injury lying in refuse. 

Feeling something right now would be good. Feeling _anything_ would be good.

Why had he thought it would be such a great idea to wake up?

“Leslie Thompkins.”

“Leslie, it’s Bruce. I need you to come pick me up.”

It’s all he can manage before he passes out.

When Bruce awakens again, he is still in the dumpster.

“Leslie…

“Bruce! Oh my God, I’ve been _trying_ to get a hold you. Dick's worried out of his mind! He says it’s been _two_ days since you left.”

“Trust me, I’m worse than I sound.”

“Where are you?”

“Corner of 63rd and 8th. In a dumpster.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“No.”

“Alright. Hang on. I’ll be there.”

Peritonitis has set in. His insides had been rotting away. There isn’t much Leslie can do but re-section what is left and hope for the best.

Having three-fourths of his intestines taken out and used for parts makes Bruce reflect on his life choices.

He’d abandoned the son he had, and gone after…

Not even his _son_. Some _stranger._ Some kid he clearly never knew.

_Jason._

_My Argonaut._

Feeling something right now would be good.

Feeling _anything_ would be good.

“A liquid diet. I can recommend several good recipe books. Believe me, your menu will be just as varied as it ever was.”

“Good.”

Bruce calculates how many hours a week he spent eating, all the hours he would now save. Who needs food, anyway? Maybe Jason has done him a favor.

Bruce is a confirmed optimist.

Dick comes to visit him soon enough. Bruce puts on his best this-darn-hospital-why-won’t-they-let-me-come-home-it’s-not-even-that-serious face. He tells Leslie not to reveal the extent of the damage to Dick. She’s only too happy to oblige. She looks like she wants to forget herself.

“Hey, Bruce!”

“Hey, Dick.” Bruce smooths the inky curls back from his forehead, and kisses him between the eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For leaving you.”

“That’s okay. Leslie told me you got shot.”

“Yes. It was a mugger.”

“Did you catch him?”

“Do I look like some action comics hero to you?”

Dick laughs. “When will you be home?”

“Two weeks or less. I’ll be on bed rest when I get back for some time. Give Selina my love.”

“Ew.”

“Will you watch Arkham for me in the mean time?”

“You mean…just me?”

“Well, I don’t trust Harleen with any form of responsibility. Although, don’t tell her that.”

“I can be responsible.”

“I _know_ you can.”

“Alright. Oh, and Bruce?”

“Hm?”

“I want you to meet somebody.”

Dick pushes forward a young boy, almost the same height, the same build, the same eye and hair color.

“This here’s Tim.”

“Oh, hello, Tim.”

“He lives next door. Well, not next door, but two blocks over.”

“That’s lovely, Tim. You should drop in some time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now shoo. I need some sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's not normal to beg for comments like this.  
> But please, if you'll take two minutes out of your day, you could give a poor thirsty soul the water of your words.   
> There, I'm done.


	13. Chapter 13

Bruce wants to take Dick to Rio for his birthday.

“For the strip clubs?”

“For the skydiving.”

Bruce had once gone sky-diving in Rio. The city had glowed like a million fireflies, all lighting up together. He’d felt more connected to all of humanity falling from the sky alone, than he had ever felt in his _life_ working with people. In fact, he’d spontaneously orgasmed; a single impossibly bright moment of blinding ecstasy. He looked up and saw the Redeemer. The Earth embraced him. He felt safe, falling into her arms.

He wants to share it with Dick. Harleen would mind the asylum. _After all, what’s the worst that can happen?_

Bruce imagines the worst, and then weighs it against his desire of taking Dick on a twenty-four hour vacation. His brain returns one answer: _Does not compute._

So he decides it’s a tie.

“Can Tim come with?”

“Who’s Tim?”

This is the second time Bruce has asked that question. Dick looks defeated.

“Do you have selective memory?”

“Do I have what?”

“You know, like Sherlock Holmes with the solar system. Do you clear out the trash? Is everything I tell you in your mind trash?”

Bruce looks at Dick. He has nothing to say to that.

“Yes. Tim can come with.”

Tim is a well-dressed, well-mannered boy. Bruce knows his father. He is one of the few people Bruce can stand to be with at soirees, mostly because he knows how to keep his thoughts to himself.

Tim has inherited that.

He finds himself wondering what is wrong with Tim.

They take the private jet directly to Copacabana.

“You have a private jet.”

“Yes.”

_Copa_

_Copacabana_

_The hottest spot_

_North of Havana_

They are dancing on the floor, all hips, just the three of them. The bartender and bouncers stare. But Dick had begged.

It was his birthday. Finally, Bruce bought the nightclub.

“No drinks.”

“Of course.”

“Happy birthday. Consider this your present.”

But Dick and Tim have eyes only for each other. Their hipbones are brushing. Bruce moves aside. 

_At the copa they fell in love_

They are close enough to smell each other’s breath.

_But Rico went a bit too far_

_Tony sailed across the bar_

_And then the punches flew._

They are breathing in the same air.

_She sits there so refined_

_And drinks herself half blind_

_Don’t fall in love._

There are pine needles drilling into his eyes. He walks out into the cool night.

“Electroshock aversive therapy. You’ve heard all the sex offender success stories.”

Bruce stares inscrutably ahead.

“Bruce. Pedophilia is curable.”

“You mean like homosexuality used to be?”

“Bruce. This is not like homosexuality.”

“I know. I know. Don’t you think I _know_ that?” Bruce paces around running his hands in his hair. “Without my demons to fight, who am I?” He stops by the window and rests his head on the glass.

“You have a kid now.”

“And if I didn’t, I’d have gone for it in a jiffy.”

Leslie’s brow creases.

“Think about it, Leslie. Before I ever loved Dick as a son, and _God_ knows I do, he was the object of my… _other_ affections.”

“You would never hurt him.”

“No. But that’s not the same thing as _not_ _wanting_ him anymore, is it?”

“So you’re afraid your paternal affection may have crossed wires with your romantic one, and extinguishing one may extinguish the other.”

“No. I’m not afraid of any crossed wires. Are paternal and romantic affections really that dissimilar? Don’t people idolize their romantic partners in much the same way they do their children, and seek to fill the deficiencies in the one with the other? My overwhelming love for Dick, more than life itself, the fact that I would cut off my right arm before I acted on my desire for him, may, paradoxically, indirectly stem from that very desire.”

“Hmm. Without the libido, there is no filial love.”

“All love is one.” He nods.

“You know,” he says, pacing around, “my mother used to press my face into her breasts and make me inhale the musk.”

“How old were you then?”

“Ten.”

“Yes.” He looks at her. “It’s so easy to judge, isn’t it? You sit in that chair, and deliver your verdict on a whole _life_ in one line. I was her _son._ She _loved_ me. She didn’t know there was any wrong sort of love.”

“Bruce. Does it ever occur to you that you are the way you are because your mother ingrained in you that it was normal?”

He sits down. “Yes. Of course it has occurred to me. What kind of a dunce do you think I am?”

“Did she ever do anything else?”

Bruce is silent. He glances up. “You know what they say about speaking of the dead.”

“Your mother is not dead. Not to you. She has become a part of your psyche. Forever.”

He’s avoiding her eyes. “Bruce. Did she ever expose herself to you?”

“No!” He doesn’t know what to punch.

“Did she ever touch you?

“She touched me.”

“Where?” Leslie asks, all patience.

“All over. Everywhere. There was nowhere she wouldn’t touch me. Nowhere was off limits.

“I was her little boy. I was an extension of herself. I _liked_ it, sometimes. Didn’t think there was anything wrong.”

A tear falls.

_Why’d you leave me why’d you stop ice blue hands warm face blouse buttons jasmine I loved you ma I’ll never forgive you ma you left me so confused, so confused._

_If you were alive you’d tell me nothing was wrong with me you'd tell me you loved me forever you'd tell me I was perfect, perfect._

_Mamamama._

Bruce gets up and walks out of the cold, dead air of Leslie’s office.

"Your father has a crush on you." Tim informs Dick.

Dick's head swivels around. He's wide-eyed.

"That's not funny, Tim." His lips have hardened.

"I didn't mean it to be."

"What the fuck do you mean."

"His irises dilate whenever he looks at you."

"That is because he _loves_ me, you dumbass. Oh, I'm sorry, I'd forgotten you don't know anything about a normal father and son relationship."

"You admitted yourself that he refuses to let you buy clothes that are too flattering to your physique."

"Those pants were _indecent!_ "

"And he's jealous of me."

"You know what?" Dick says. "Maybe we _have_ been spending too much time together."


	14. Chapter 14

"Dick, I love you. I just want you to know that. I've always loved you. From the first moment I ever saw you."

"You sick freak." Batman grunts. He punches Bruce full in the face. Bruce flies back, and hits his head against the wall. He grimaces. Blood streams from his nostrils. 

"Leave my father alone!" Dick screams. _Not this again. Please not this again._

Batman removes his cowl. Dick starts, and stares. He swallows. He's seeing things. He's certain. 

"Dick. I _am_ your father.

"Come with me, Dick. I'll lay aside the cape and cowl. I won't treat you like a toy soldier any more. I'll cherish you, Dick. I'll give you the childhood you never had."

"Look, man, I don't know who the fuck you are, or what the fuck you're talking about, but--" 

"I'm from an alternate universe, Dick. I've been watching you. I've been watching your dad. I know he is an unfit father. I'm not perfect, Dick, but you deserve better. I can give you better."

"What happened to _your_ Dick?"

Batman looks down. " _I_ was an unfit father," he whispers. "But give me another chance, Dick. Please."

"Is he dead?"

Batman flexes his hands, and stares at them. Minutes elapse before he whispers, "Yes."

"Was it your fault?"

"Yes."

"Then why should I give you another chance?"

Batman's shoulders droop.

"Because without you, Dick, my world is not worth inhabiting."

Dick breathes in and out. 

"Neither is his." He jerks his head in the direction of Bruce.

"Dick. Go with him. He can give you something I never can."

Dick looks at Bruce, unbelieving. 

"You know it. Go."

Dick approaches Bruce. 

"Dick. I'll be fine. I'll pull myself together. I'll go on."

Dick hugs Bruce. 

"Okay, so like, maybe you're a sick freak. But you're still my sick freak."

He turns to Batman.

"Life doesn't give you second chances. You can't hop to another dimension or whatever, and just _pick up wherever you left off!_ "

Batman looks much like Bruce had looked just now, when he was telling Dick to go.

"That's cheating."

Batman bows his head. 

"Leave."

There is a flash of light. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think. Good, bad, anything. I'm going crazy!


	15. Chapter 15

Ace Chemicals is once again on the news. Last month it was on because a bunch of its employees, while high, had decided to wear red buckets on their heads and jump into green chemical vats. 

They came out bleached and making very little sense.

Conspiracy theories had floated around after that on internet message boards and forums that Ace Chemicals was carrying out human experimentation. Bruce was intrigued by the rumours, but after scanning the evidence, was convinced that the simplest explanation covered all the facts.

This month, however, there's a different story.

A more dangerous story. 

Ace Chemicals has been illegally dumping thousands of gallons of waste in the Amazon rainforest. Brazil's economy needed the cash, and of course, all the corrupt officials along the way got their cut.

Bruce immediately turns off the television. 

But Pamela has heard.

"Initiate Security Protocol Beta Minus One. Codename Poison Ivy."

"Protocol engaged."

Steel reinforced doors close all around the asylum. Nozzles descend from the ceiling, releasing a gas neutralizing all plant-based matter. All of Pamela's carefully cultivated wildflowers. All of her work.

But Pamela is one step ahead.

She has grabbed a plastic knife from the makeshift pantry the inmates have access to. And she has grabbed Harleen.

Harleen squeals. 

"Let me go, Bruce."

"Pam. Look at me. I can feel your rage. Trust me. We can work from within the system."

"Let. Me. Go."

"I can buy Ace Chemicals. I can liquidate it. You have to _trust me._ "

"And how long before another company crops up in it's place? How many companies will you liquidate, Bruce? These people need to be made an example of."

"Pamela. You know Arkham policy. We don't negotiate with terrorists."

"Really. Bruce. You're willing to see your friend's throat cut in front of your very eyes for the sake of _policy._ "

"I think 'friend' is pushing it."

"He's right," Harleen sighs. "If situations were reversed, I'd say the exact same thing."

"Fine. Here goes everything." She starts cutting Harleen's throat with precision. 

"Situation neutralized. Reverse Protocol."

"Bruce. What are you doing." Harleen hisses. 

Bruce's face is drained of color. 

"Pamela is right. I've never been much good at following policy."

Pamela Isley storms into corporate CEO Bruce Wayne's office, trailed by a helpless secretary.

"I'm sorry sir, I couldn't keep her out, she says she has an appointment but..."

"Relax, Abigail. Stress isn't good for the baby."

"Yes, sir."

"Close the door.

"Now tell me, Miss Ivy. How can I be of service to you this fine morning?"

Pamela sinks down into the luxuriously soft leather seat. 

"It's _Isley."_

 _"_ That's what I said."

Pamela feels vaguely guilty for intruding on this nice man's life in such a not-so-nice manner. But she remembers what he's responsible for and steels herself. 

"I'm here to talk about Wayne Enterprises' Poddar Bridge Construction project."

Bruce Wayne is filing his nails, his feet up on the desk. He looks up sharply. 

"That? But that's been in progress for six months."

"Yes, well, being the leading botanical researcher in Gotham, I have been _busy_ the last six months filing reports in City Hall describing the havoc this project will wreak on the plant life on site, some of which are species which are classified as endangered. None of them were judged worthy of even a formal hearing."

"I'm sorry to hear that. So you thought of me as your last resort? I'm flattered."

"Well..." Pamela feels flustered. "You're difficult to reach."

"Well, unfortunately, our surveyors found nothing on site 'worth preserving'. Not that I'm doubting the veracity of what you're saying, mind you."

 _Nothing worth preserving._ Pamela's blood rushes to her face. 

"And, pray tell me, what would qualify as 'worth preserving'?"

Bruce Wayne winces. "Maybe that wasn't exactly my best choice of words ever. But I suppose they take into account the ecological impact of the species, etcetera."

"I see. And you think there are plant species that _lack_ ecological impact?"

Bruce Wayne blinks. _Hah._

 _"_ No, I suppose not. But the way I see it, species we don't even _know_ exist are dying every day. Unless you can prove a clearly damaging environmental reaction, I really don't see any justification for interrupting a project that is providing hundreds of people work."

" _And_ generating Wayne Enterprises a million dollars in revenue."

"And that."

"Well, the ecological impact of this project is not _sizable,_ as far as these things go. But nothing goes unnoticed in nature. For example, moonflowers, which are growing there in abundance, provide a source of nectar and pollen to a large colony of fruit bats that nest close by. Eradicating the flowers will probably displace the bats, killing many of them in the process."

"Fruit bats!" Bruce Wayne sits up. "Now why didn't you mention _that_ before? I'm partial to bats myself. They're so cute!"

Faced with idiocy of this sort, was it any _wonder_ that she had become an eco-terrorist? 


	16. Chapter 16

Bruce has put a tracer on Pamela, and is tracking her from a safe distance.

"What is the use of knowing where she is if we can't call for help?" Dick asks.

"Patience. This is our mess, and our responsibility."

"I hope you're using _our_ in the royal sense of the word, because the last time _we_ checked, _we_ were at school when this mess happened."

Bruce looks at him. It's an eloquent look. Dick shuts up. 

For about twenty seconds. 

"Don't be surprised if the rest of them are gone when we get back. There's no one holding down the fort."

"I called Tim."

"Oh. Since when do you and Tim talk?"

"We get along."

"Really. Well, I appreciate you getting together with my ex behind my back."

"Dick. Is it your time of the month?"

Dick's mouth falls open.

"You did _not_ just crack a menstruation joke.That was super insulting, Bruce. To all women."

"I agree."

They are crouched together outside a giant warehouse, deserted by the looks of it. Bruce makes some hand signals.

" _What?_ " 

"I'll take point."

"What does _that_ mean?"

"It means, I'll walk ahead of you," Bruce enunciates slowly. 

"Oh. Why didn't you just say _that_ instead."

"Because it saves--never mind."

"This sidekick thing really isn't working out, huh?"

Bruce's face is grave. "You are _not_ my sidekick, you hear me? You are my son."

Clearly he was remembering haunted eyes in a blank cowl. 

Dick tries to lighten the mood. 

"Oh come on. You're just doing this secret mission thing because you're feeling insecure after you saw that cooler kevlar version of you."

"Insecure? All I saw was a broken man. 

"I thank God for my life."

They creep inside on tiptoes. Bruce is a natural at blending in. But Dick feels like he's playing at being a ninja.

_Tiptoe Tiptoe Tiptoe Tippytoe_

How did the other universe's Dick Grayson ever take his job seriously?

Suddenly, the ground lashes at his feet. Vines creep out from all corners, making their way to him like so many snakes.

Dick screams. 

(It _was_ scary _as fuck._ )

Bruce throws himself on the vines, seemingly trying to wrestle them into submission. A soft tinkling laugh rings out. 

Pamela steps into the beam of moonlight in the centre of the warehouse. 

Just then, the vines all rush together and pick up both Bruce and Dick, and dangle them upside down in a very undignified manner. 

"Oh, Bruce. Did you really think I didn't know all about your little gadgets, tucked away in the nooks and crannies of my body? All this time that you've been studying me, I've not exactly been blind to you either."

Dick notes, with comic puzzlement, that Pamela is sounding like a textbook caricature of a supervillain. 

Bruce had once told him that people fell back on roles when they weren't sure about where they stood in the world. 

_She's afraid._

_She's never had this much power before._

_She's as new to this as we are._

"Pam. Let's talk about this like civilized people. Put me down." 

"No. I think I like you exactly where you are."

"Dick is getting nauseous."

"Hey!"

But it was true. He was just about to throw up when Pam sets him down.

"Fine. Do it in the corner. Not on my vines."

Then Pam comes closer to Bruce and kisses him on the lips. 

Bruce is taken aback. 

"What was that?"

She'd never shown romantic interest in him before.

"I don't know. I just felt like it."

"Well. That's very...spontaneous of you."

"And now I must bid you two adieu."

"Bid us what?" Dick asks.

She looks at Bruce. "Seriously?"

Bruce shrugs. "Not like I haven't _tried_ to get him to read more."

"Get him books with pictures."

"I have."

"Hey!" Dick protests from the corner. "Diagrams and graphs don't count!"

"What's the plan, Pamela?"

"Well, since you can't do anything to stop me, I'm going to the President of the Board at Ace Chemicals, and dismembering him in public. Then I'll hang each of his limbs from a different tree."

Dick retches again.

"What a waste of good manure," Bruce remarks. "Still, it might interest you to know you don't have to go that far to get the...uh...outcome you desire. The Honorable President is closer than you might think."

Dick rolls his eyes. He can see the twist coming. Sometimes Bruce is so cheesy.

"Stop talking in riddles."

"You're looking at him."

Dick groans.

"What?"

"It was me all along."

"Okay. Bruce, stop wasting my time. Enjoy your vertical house arrest."

"Okay, Pamela, it wasn't me! But it _is_ me, now. Two hours ago, I bought the company. I'm the President now. I'm ready for my judgement."

She smiles.

"Bruce, this doesn't change anything. _You're_ not responsible for the mass dump of toxic waste chemicals in the world's most biodiverse rainforest. Theodore Fox is. I don't care what his standing title may be. He's getting his due."

"Ah, see, I _thought_ you might say that. That's why I paid Teddy a visit and told him a notorious eco-terrorist was on his tail. Once I convinced him the threat was real, he was only too happy to oblige me by leaving Gotham under an alias, unknown to me, of course."

"You're lying."

"Then go check. I'll...hang around here."

Pamela comes back in two hours. Bruce's head feels heavy with blood. Any moment now, he's going to faint.

She lets him go. When he stands up tottering, she sprays his eyes with poison ivy.

" _Jesus!_ "

Dick rushes to him.

"The _fuck!"_ His eyes are blazing. "He was only trying to help you! He was only trying to save you from making a bad decision that _you_ would have to live with for the rest of your life! You think he cares about Teddy? It's _you_ he cares about!"

"He took it away from me!" Pamela screams.

"Yes, it was always about _you,_ wasn't it. It wasn't about the flowers or the plants or the trees. It's about you."

Pamela tries to smile a wicked smile and laugh a wicked laugh. But as she sees Bruce rocking in pain, his eyes shut, the mother in her melts.

Bruce is vulnerable. 

And Poison Ivy, deep down, is about love. 


	17. Chapter 17

Bruce decides to let Jeremiah Arkham go.

He pays for a generous northern estate in reparation. Arkham is grumpy, but doesn't put up too much of a fight.

"Say a word about Bruce and us, Jerry," Jack whispers to him as he's slipping out the door, "and I'll pay you a personal visit."

Jeremiah Arkham cannot get out that door fast enough. The last thing he hears is Jack cackling behind him.

_Madonna and Whore._

Every man is two. And he seeks two women. 

The Saint and the Sinner. 

One to share his bed with, and the other to share his life. 

Lucky is the man who is able to combine the two in his head. Lucky is the woman who can embrace both aspects of herself. 

Selina has no illusions as to who she is. 

And she has a good idea who is Bruce's Madonna. 

He chops off her locks until they barely frame her face, soft curls coming down to her earlobes. 

In bed sometimes, he wants her to dress like a boy. A young boy. 

Selina has no problems. It gives her something to do. 

She was never much good at being Madonna anyway. _That_ had always been Maggie.

 _She_ was a Whore. 

My version of [Selina](https://pin.it/5qwqn3o7i3k4sx)


	18. Chapter 18

"My grandfather is the Demon.

"He is the Head of an ancient cult of assassins with a deep-rooted network in every part of the globe."

"Okay."

"And my mother raped my father, who was the greatest warrior she'd ever seen. _A_ _Blue-Eyed Demon._ "

"Uhuh."

"She bested him in battle! But only barely." 

"Wow."

"She mounted him with her last remaining strength. She wanted to give her father an heir."

"That's sad. If she was so great, why couldn't _she_ be his heir?"

Damian looks at him like he's gone mad. 

"Because she was a _woman!_ " 

"Okay."

"She died in childbirth."

"I see."

"And one day, my grandfather is going to come and take me away, and then I will fulfill my destiny." 

Destiny. Legacy. Heritage. The boy is obsessed. 

Sometimes it is his father who is going to come and take him away to his castle in the sky, or his dungeon in the deep. And give him a new name, and a new path.

"So, Damian. Why did you set fire to a school full of children?"

"Children are _pathetic_ ," he sneers.

"Children who have parents?"

"I _told_ you. I _do_ have parents! My mother gave her _life_ to bring me into this world."

"And how does that make you feel?"

"Honored. And indebted."

"Hm. And what about your grandfather?"

"He is merely testing me right now. Once I pass, he will induct me into the League of Shadows."

"I see. Is that the name of the cult of assassins?"

"Yes."

Bruce jots something down.

"You don't believe me."

"I suspend my disbelief. And how will your grandfather know when you have passed?"

"His eyes and ears are everywhere. He will know. When the time is right."

"So can he can hear you right now?"

"I wouldn't put it past him," Damian whispers. "For all I know, _you_ are one of his agents."

"Hm."

"Well, won't you even take the trouble of denying it?"

"If I did, would you believe me?"

"No."

"Then what would be the point?"

Damian smiles. "I can see what my grandfather sees in you."

"Can you?"

"Yes."

A sudden thought strikes Damian. 

"Wait a minute! I have been so preoccupied with my grandfather, I have _completely_ forgotten that my _father_ is also testing me!"

"Indeed."

"I come to this city looking for him. The City of Shadows. The one I see in my dreams. I set a fire to attract _his_ notice."

Bruce looks at Damian. 

"And _you_ find me. A blue-eyed man of unearthly beauty and wisdom."

" _Well_ , I would hardly call it _unearthly_..."

"And what better way to test me, than to see if I knew you? If I could deduce your identity?" 

This is all moving way too fast. Bruce tries to slow Damian down. But Damian throws himself at his feet. 

"Father!" he looks up with blind adoration. Tears of amazement roll down from his eyes. 

"I _knew_ you were watching. I _knew_ you cared!"

Bruce has not the heart. So he does the only thing he knows how. 

"Son," he gravely intones. Damian shivers. "I always knew you had it in you."


	19. Chapter 19

"So let me get this straight. He thinks you're his father."

"Yes."

"And we have to _let_ him keep thinking that."

"Interfering with his fantasies at this point will almost certainly be injurious to his psyche."

Dick looks worried. He's taking this hard. "What do you mean _at this point_?"

"Maybe over the course of a few years of exposure to unconditional love, when he no longer needs his fantasies to believe he is worthy of acceptance, he will _himself_ come to question them."

"So, wait. _Maybe?_ "

"Don't underestimate him. He's precocious. He _will_ notice. Eventually."

"Okay. So, what _are_ these fantasies, exactly?"

Bruce tells him.

Dick whistles. "Kid's got some imagination."

"Hmph."

"It couldn't be _true,_ right? Any part of it?"

Bruce quirks an eyebrow. 

"I mean, how many people would believe _us_ if we told them that an alternate universe version of you in a Halloween costume popped up out of thin air and tried to persuade me to go back with him? I still wouldn't believe it myself, if you didn't happen to remember it too."

Bruce has to admit that Dick has a point. Still...the balance of probability is overwhelmingly in favor of a psychotic break, given the self-shoring nature of Damian's fantasies.

"And then Grandfather gave me to the witch doctor to be raised. She taught me the art of medicinal herbs, potions and elementary magic."

If Dick was in a Tom and Jerry film right now, his eyes would be bulging out of his sockets.

"Elementary magic, huh?"

"Yes." Damian says sternly. He hates having to repeat himself. This other kid of Father's, who doesn't even share the same bloodline, seems to presume himself an equal and even a superior to _him_! He thinks Damian hasn't noticed his superciliousness, or the sly looks he gives Father over dinner. Well, he has. And the moment Damian has supplanted this lesser version's place in Father's heart, he will have to go. No, he will challenge him to a duel. To the death. Yes. Father will be proud when Damian emerges the victor, gore dripping from his hair.

"Son. I knew you had it in you."

And he will smile.

As for Father. Well. Damian is a bit puzzled in that respect. Father doesn't appear to be the great warrior he dreamed of. He doesn't do his Tai Chi drills in the morning, he doesn't do a thousand pushups a day, and he only works out daily for half an hour. _Half an hour!_ Damian shudders. What a waste of greatness. Still, it's not his place to tell Father how he should or shouldn't train his own body. For all he knew, this was another test.

Still, he keeps puzzling over what he sees one morning. Father is walking down the steps from his study, and he stubs his toe on the banister. This in itself would be a disgrace, but to add insult to his own injury, he hops around on one foot, grimacing in pain, for a full thirty seconds. He doesn't even look ashamed that Damian has witnessed this disgraceful display of weakness. He comes down humming, and smiles at Damian.

"Good morning."

Damian scowls. But then he puts it away and answers cheerfully, "It is, isn't it."

Damian has noticed that Father responds to cheerfulness. He has learned this from observing Father's interactions with Grayson. On days that Grayson is cheerful, Father is in a good mood. On days that Grayson is moody, there is a shadow over Father's face. 

Apart from Father and Grayson, there is Timothy Drake. Among the free folk.

Drake is...the only word Damian can think of to describe him is _creepy_. 

His quiet dark eyes keep coming to rest on Damian and then flitting away if Damian chances to turn and see him looking. Drake seems to know some secret that Damian is not privy to. He seems to be looking right through Damian's soul. 

If Grayson is obnoxious, Drake is unnerving. 

Harleen Quinzel is free too, but she likes pretending she's an inmate. She calls herself 'Harley Quinn'. Damian shows his contempt for her freely, as Father does not seem to be very fond of her. In fact, Father seems to find her as obnoxious as _he_ finds Grayson.

The patients are not worth mentioning. Father treats them as equals, jokes with them, pats them on the back, lets them take liberties with him. But Damian sees, clearly. Father only acts this way to keep them happy. He does not actually _think_ they're his equals, or he wouldn't have put so many safety protocols in place. He wouldn't lock his bedroom door at night. He wouldn't tell Damian to lock his too.


	20. Chapter 20

"A road trip!" Harley says. 

"You can't have a road trip for Christmas, Harleen."

Harley pouts and looks chagrined. Jack intervenes. 

"I don't see why not."

"Yes, of course you wouldn't," Bruce says brusquely. " _You're_ the serial killer. _I'm_ the guy in charge of keeping you here."

"Oh, come on, Brucie! Live a little!"

"I think the expression you're looking for is 'kill a little'."

"Now why would I kill anyone on a road trip? What would be the point?"

"I thought the point was that there was no point, you being an agent of chaos and all."

"Oh no. All that was good PR. But I killed to get in _here_ , Brucie. Or are you forgetting? Now that I'm here, I'm average Jack again."

"You would think with a name like Jack, you wouldn't need to add _average_ before it," Selina quips. Pamela high-fives her.

"How is 'Arkham Asylum Goes on Roadtrip' going to look for a newspaper headline?"

"We can all wear disguises!" Dick puts in excitedly.

Bruce stares at him. _Et tu, Brutus?_

"And if we get caught, you can always tell the judge it was my idea." Harley adds. 

"Yes, why didn't _I_ think of that."

"Just so you know, Father, I completely agree with you. These freaks should not be allowed to suffer under the illusion that they are _normal_."

There is now a pin-drop silence. 

Bruce turns to Damian. "What did you say?" he asks quietly. 

"I--"

"Damian. Why exactly do you think _you_ are here?"

"Bruce," Dick says quietly.

"No. He needs to hear this. Why exactly are you here, Damian?"

"Because I am your son!" he screams.

"And?"

"There is no _and,_ Father!" Damian is on the verge of _some_ thing that feels horribly exposing. Something that feels suspiciously like a tear rolls down his cheek.

"Bruce, enough!" Dick shouts. Everyone stares at him. "I think _freak_ pretty adequately describes everyone in this room. And if you hotshot serial killers and eco-terrorists and snoops (here he looks at Tim) and pedophiles can't take a little kid calling you a name, then you're just going to have to grow a thicker skin!"

"Who's the pedophile?" Harvey wonders aloud.

"The guy with the kids is a good bet." Two Face says.

"Please stop talking to yourself," Jack says.

Everyone turns and stares at him. It's the first time Jack has ever used the word _please_.

A wicked smile spreads across Bruce's face.

"If Jack asks nicely, you can go on the car trip." 

"Please, Brucie. Pretty please?" asks Jack, fluttering his eyelashes.

Bruce pretends to consider.

"Oh, for God's sake," Selina snaps. She pulls out her whip.

"We're the most powerful bunch of criminals in the world, and we're sitting around _asking_ for permission?" she raises her whip and wraps it around Bruce's neck.

"Maggie," she says.

"Fine." Bruce says, raising his hands. "But for the record, I had nothing to do with this. In fact, tie me up," he tells Pamela. "And take my sons hostage. All three of them."

Tim's mouth falls open. "You're adopting me?"

"That depends. Are your parents dead?"

"Not yet." He says.

Dick and Damian turn to him horror-stricken faces.

"Oh relax. It's called dark humor."

"That settles it." Harley claps her hands. "Let's pack."

After the entire gaggle of them are out the door, Bruce sighs, and unties the vines.

What he has in mind is a relaxing hot water bath, complete with good wine and music.

The Christmas tree is going to have to wait. 

The doorbell rings.

"Oh, for Christ's sake." He could just picture it. Harleen saying "Oh, Bruce, I just forgot my stripper costume. Can you get it for me? It's under the shelf with the cucumber dildos."

He opens the door.

A man stands outside, holding a present. He has a beard, and is wearing a leather biker jacket and sunglasses.

"Merry Christmas, Bruce."

Bruce looks at him, and instinctively clutches his abdomen.

The man winces.

"I just came to say I'm sorry."

"Well, you're two years late.

"Come inside."

Jason catches Bruce up on his life. He's made something of himself, he tells him proudly. He's the head of the leading motorbike gang in Bludhaven. He beats up pedos on the side.

"Is that why you came here?"

"No. I think I've given you all I had. And you're still standing."

"We both are."

"Yeah."

"I still don't accept your apology."

Jason looks down.

"Go inside and decorate the Christmas tree. I'm tired.

"And when you're done, there's ice-cream waiting for you in the freezer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this has been quite the journey for me. I think I understood parts of own life better while writing this fic.  
> Sorry for all the psychological mumbo-jumbo. I'm a psych student, and it was really interesting for me to try to present more nuanced characterizations of the Bat-gaggle.  
> Let me know in the comments which parts you liked, which you hated, and which were just plain not good. I'm always up for more perspective.  
> There may be a subsequent work, if enough people ask for it.


End file.
